


put on quite a show (really had me going)

by ratherembarrassing



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherembarrassing/pseuds/ratherembarrassing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>set around 'naked', completely jossed by 'diva'.</p>
    </blockquote>





	put on quite a show (really had me going)

**Author's Note:**

> set around 'naked', completely jossed by 'diva'.

“… so you have to come, Santana.”

Her name pulls her attention back to the voice yapping in her ear, and she blinks to break the staring competition she’s fallen into with the pair of boots sitting just inside the door.

She hates her roommate, but she hates her roommate’s ugly as hell, Ellie May Clampett, bona fide rootin’ tootin’, rodeo boots more. She’s pretty sure they have actual horse shit crusted to the heel.

“Santana!” Kurt’s voice snaps down the phone line.

“What, Dixie Cup?” She snags the throw from the end of her bed with her toes, tosses it over the boots. It’s not like it’s her throw. Actually, she squints at the lump on the floor, it might be Brittany’s.

Well then.

“You have to come to New York.”

 _Yeah, no shit_ , she thinks. “No.”

“But Rachel—”

“I can’t.”

“But there’s no way Quinn will be able to convince her alone.”

“Convince her to do what?”

“Santana have you been listening at all?”

She hasn’t. All she heard was, “Come to New York,” and she’d spaced.

“Rachel’s in some student production and it involves a nude scene.” How the hell did she miss that piece of information? “She won’t listen to me. Her idiot boyfriend who drinks all the milk thinks it’s a great idea. Quinn’s coming down from New Haven. All caught up now?”

“Quinn’s coming?” seems like a safer question than “Nude scene?” though she wants to hear more about that.

“Yes,” Kurt says, voice going from gay to pissy gay, and she pulls herself up from her slump against her pillows to actually pay attention before he gets legitimately annoyed. He keeps sending her scarves he’s possibly stealing from Vogue, and she doesn’t want to be cut off.

There’s a calendar pinned to the wall beside her bed, and she looks at the month of February. “When’s this going down?”

“The shoot’s next Tuesday.”

_Tuesday:_

_6-9 gym 10-12 Intro Econ 2-4 Intro to Lit 4.30-6.30 training_

_Women’s Studies paper due_

_Pay phone bill_

She turns away, and the throw that’s not hers over the boots she hates mocks her.

“I’ll be there.”

…

Her flight is stupidly early, but Tuesday turned out to be the earliest she could get a flight, so it’s this or nothing.

There’s this guy sitting opposite her spitting his chew into a cup, and she honestly thinks she’s going to vomit when her flight is finally called. She pulls out her phone, tapping open her messages, and she’s going to text her mom, because it would be weird to just go off to New York without telling anyone, right?

Before she does anything her phone vibrates in her hand, a message from Quinn popping up.

_Kate Spade’s having a sale. We’re going there after lunch. See you soon, x Q._

She and Quinn haven’t spoken since Quinn slithered out of Lima the morning after Thanksgiving, but apparently they’re pretending nothing happened.

So, business as usual.

…

JFK spits her out onto the road and maybe she should have googled  _something_  before she arrived. What, exactly, she doesn’t know.

This is nothing like last time, blinded by Brittany buzzing around her and Mr Shue and Ms P leading them around. She at least recognizes the subway signs, because she’s not actually touched in the head, but she doesn’t know what train to take or where to.

There’s $75 in her wallet; that enough for a cab right?

…

It turns out to be  _just_  enough, and she’s genuinely concerned she might be mugged for her change when she steps out of the cab. But she tracked where they were going with the GPS on her phone, just in case, and it’s the address Kurt gave her.

She watches  _Girls_ , okay, she knows Brooklyn’s all edgy and shit, but this is not what she was expecting of Kurt. Or Rachel for that matter.

She thinks the woman standing on the sidewalk nearby is homeless until she catches the Marc Jacobs bag hanging off her shoulder. There’s no buzzer anywhere, and the door gives way under her hand, which just seems dangerous.  _Top floor_ , Kurt’s text said, so she settles her bag a little higher on her shoulder and crosses her self before heading up the rickety staircase.

“God, it’s about time,” Kurt says after she knocks on the door, and he pulls her inside with a brush of his cheek against hers; that’s new but apparently they’re grown ups now, at least if kissing on the cheek and nude scenes in movies and abandoning everything without having to say a word to anyone is any indication. “I have to go, but I wanted to make sure you got here okay first.”

“Hello to you too,” she says, eyeing the apartment. Is it even an apartment if it doesn’t have walls?

Quinn’s hovering by the couch, mouth all twisted up like she ate something she actually enjoyed, and Santana rolls her eyes. “Q,” she says, and squeezes extra hard when she wraps her arms around Quinn’s shoulders.

…

They don’t speak for a while after Kurt leaves with the promise that Rachel will definitely be home by twelve and no details as to where he’s off to. He left them a key, though Santana’s not sure what it’s for.

“So Brooklyn’s disgusting,” she says eventually, the silence starting to bother her with its lack of actual silence. There’s music coming from somewhere on the street, and she can hear people downstairs, and how the hell do Kurt and Rachel  _live_  like this?

Quinn hums noncommittally from her end of the couch, and Santana gives up scoping out Kurt’s bookshelf.

“How’s the professor?”

Quinn doesn’t look at her, just folds her arms more tightly across her chest. “Just wonderful.”

“I’ll just bet he is,” Santana rolls her eyes, dropping onto the couch beside her.

…

Maybe they get through to Rachel, maybe they don’t.

Either way, “I’m not apologizing for slapping you. You slapped me first.”

“Whatever,” Quinn says, picking up her purse. “Let’s go.”

…

Quinn gets them completely lost trying to find Broome Street (“It’s not my fault the streets stopped having numbers.”) but somewhere along the way Santana has learnt how to read a map. Navigating them three whole blocks is enough of an accomplishment that after five minutes, she sits out the front of the store, watching the people go buy, and not caring that Quinn spends an hour looking and ends up buying nothing.

They’re in Topshop, both loaded down with things, when Rachel calls, and Quinn says an hour’s fine, they’ll meet her at NYADA.

“Do you even know where NYADA is?” she asks once Quinn’s off the phone.

Quinn adds a hat she’s been contemplating on the top of her pile and heads in the direction of the registers, “Nope,” tossed over her shoulder.

…

“Santana,” Rachel calls out, “this way.”

Dammit. She thought they were changing trains, and she frowns as she doubles back to the stairs up to the street.

It’s getting dark as Rachel leads them across Union Square and into what looks like a shitty diner from the outside. It might actually be a shitty diner on the inside, but it’s dark and crowded and they wait ten minutes before a waitress shows them to a booth.

“I’m pretty sure all the staff here are on coke,” Rachel says as she shoves her coat out of the way and slides around the table.

Quinn makes a face in Santana’s direction, rolls her eyes as if to ask, “Seriously?” But the waitress returns, and she’s weirdly friendly as Rachel orders a rum and coke without question and, okay, _seriously?_  So she rolls her eyes back at Quinn and then orders a John Collins.

Shut up, she saw it in a movie once.

Quinn rolls her eyes,  _at_  Santana this time, but there’s a smile on her face that doesn’t look like bullshit and she orders a Manhattan, and, god, they’re both such idiots Santana starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Rachel asks, and Quinn snickers.

“You’re right,” Quinn says, “totally on coke,” and Santana laughs harder.

…

No point in pretending otherwise: they’re drunk off their asses when they leave.

It’s late, so they have to wait like five whole minutes or something for the train, and Santana grabs a hotdog before they go down to the platform, so she’s peachy.

“If you quit cheerleading,” Quinn says, “you’ll have to stop eating like that.”

She licks some ketchup off her finger before eyeing Quinn’s ass. “Speak for yourself, Mom Jeans. And who says I’m quitting cheerleading?”

And okay, she  _is_ , she knows what the inside of her head looks like, but she’s not just going to roll over for Quinn like that.

“I do,” Quinn says, with such force that Rachel spins around from where she’s listening to a busker playing the theme song from  _The Cosby Show_. “Come  _on_ , Santana,  _what are you doing?_ ”

“I don’t know Quinn, what are you doing with a  _married professor_?”

Rachel gasps, and Quinn turns away, and Santana is just too drunk for this shit. A lifetime ago they managed a friendship by never talking about the things friends should talk about—a girl, a baby—and now they can’t seem to go a day in each other’s presence without pushing every damn button.

And not in a fun way. Sometimes it’s fun, but tonight just wants to be in a place where she actually wants to be.

“You know what.” She pushes away from the wall, circling around Quinn. “I  _am_  sorry for slapping you. Because even though you deserved it, it clearly didn’t do any good, and I don’t like wasted effort.”

“What would you know about effort?” Quinn says, and Santana takes another step around her and, oh for god’s sake.

“Are you  _crying_?”

“Santana,” Rachel says, but Santana waves her back.

“You’re such a bitch,” Quinn says, swiping at her face. “You know there’s no professor.”

She in fact  _didn’t_  know that, but she doesn’t let it show on her face because where there’s smoke there’s fire, and Quinn Fabray’s pants are so flaming right now someone should call 911. But she can hold off on that for a while.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Santana says, closing the distance between then and wrapping her arm around Quinn’s shoulders.

The train arrives, and Rachel hovers as they get into the mostly empty car, and Quinn doesn’t pull away when Santana sits them both down and leaves her arm where it is.

…

The last time they shared a bed, Quinn’s hair, newly cut, had tickled her nose.

One of the many times before that, Quinn’s ponytail had been clutched desperately in her fist as they fingered each other silently, Brittany asleep beside them.

This time, Quinn hair falls around them, blocking out the street light streaming through the window.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing we don’t both want,” Quinn says, eyes fixed on Santana’s lips.

They don’t have a friendship that would be ruined by this, but she nudges Quinn back anyway, gently, because she has a feeling she might end up with more than a slap to the face if she handles this badly. So, like she would normally handle anything between her and Quinn.

“I’m not saying no,” she starts, and digs her fingers in when she feels Quinn’s entire frame turn rigid. “I’m just asking why.”

Quinn peers down at her, not meeting her eyes directly, and Santana is very aware of the way they’re pressed together. “Does it matter why?”

“Yeah, actually, it does. Because you’re a psycho, and probably a closet case, and I don’t want to end up on the end of a knife because you freak out. Again.”

Quinn tries to pull herself away, and Santana’s grip has her lifted off the makeshift bed she’s lying on, but they both collapse back against the cushions, and she refuses to let Quinn move.

“I’m not saying no,” she repeats, and pulls Quinn’s face to her, their lips connecting firmly for a moment. “I’m just saying check yourself, first.”

…

It’s silent so long, Santana would think Quinn had fallen asleep against if not for being able to feel how tense Quinn is, all against her length.

“You’re not saying no?” comes quietly, and she realizes Quinn’s hand has started to move against her hip.

“Nope.”

She should. She can’t be as good to Quinn as Quinn deserves, not right now and not right here. But she misses it, and Quinn’s  _offering_ , and no one’s offered her so much as a pat on the back in the last few months.

It’s probably time to learn to start asking for what she wants, instead of waiting for it to be offered, but for now not looking a gift orgasm in the mouth is a good first step.

…

There’s been someone shouting, god only knows where, for the last twenty minutes, at least, and she’s just worked it into the background noise and about to drift back to sleep when floorboards creak under someone’s foot.

“Oh my  _god_!” Rachel screams, and Quinn jerks against Santana’s side.

They probably should have put their sleep clothes back on, she thinks, as she pulls the blankets over their heads.

“Hi,” she says, ignoring Rachel’s even louder shouting.

“Um,” is all Quinn says, but she’s holding onto Santana instead of shoving her away.


End file.
